


The Sorceress’ Apprentice

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (ok so it's slightly unprofessional), Bondage with Elf hair, Embroidery, F/F, Fun with Elf hair, Fun with farspeaking, Galadriel is thirsty for knowledge, Gen, It's totally professional don't worry, Maiar Witch Tricks, Melian is knowledge, Mentor/Protégé, Sewing as a metaphor run deeply into the ground, Sindarin Death Customs, Taking liberties with Tolkienian magic, Unresolved Sexual Tension, don't call them tricks this is srs bsns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 14:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10388733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: "Yet Galadriel ... remained long in Doriath and received the love of Melian, and abode with her and there learned great lore and wisdom."From her mother, Galadriel had learned grace, composure, and how to veil the teeth of diplomacy in silk and soft words. From her grandmother, she learned when to bare those teeth. From her cousin she learned the value of will and the power of independence.Her ambition was her own, and carefully stoked.(And from Melian she learned nothing at all.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> __  
>  [Hey little princess/you look a mess](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZUiMixMMz0)   
> 

From her mother, Galadriel had learned grace, composure, and how to veil the teeth of diplomacy in silk and soft words.

From her grandmother, she learned when to bare those teeth.

From her cousin she learned the value of will and the power of independence.

Her ambition was her own, and carefully stoked.

 

* * *

 

Thingol welcomed her to Doriath with a disinterested grey gaze that reminded her of her grandfather. Galadriel kissed the tips of his fingers lightly as she inclined her head over his ring – a mark of respect that she and Finrod had agreed upon, however it chafed their pride to do obeisance to this king who was not their king.

“But then,” Finrod had said, “we are going through kings so quickly.”

“Were I king,” said Galadriel, “my reign would not be swift nor need defending by a girdle.” She waited for Finrod to make a sly comment about girdles, but he didn’t.

“Were you king,” said Finrod, “I would likely be dead.”

“I know. Watch what you eat, I have been learning poisons.”

“I have been learning antidotes.”

They grinned at each other. As they returned to cleaning the war out from under their fingernails in preparation for their arrival at court, Finrod said, “Do not be so dismissive of the girdle, it may be the source of a king’s strength. Perhaps you will need to find yourself a queen who can weave you one as well.”

“Or learn to weave one myself.”

 

* * *

 

With her brother she honed her politics and learned grace and when to hold her tongue. When Finrod held his overlong, she learned when to loose her own.

In the court of Thingol and Melian she learned masks, and how to wear them. She learned new lessons, studied new models.

From Thingol she learned disdain. From the princess she learned humor and charm.

And from Melian, she learned nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

“Would that I could have your knowing of the Great Arts,” said Galadriel, practicing her silk. “They seem of great value to one who might lead and wish to protect.”

Melian said nothing, but the blackbird on her shoulder twittered something birdish and inane.

“I am lucky indeed to be in your court and to find myself in the company of so great a practitioner,” said Galadriel, practicing her boldness. “Would that I could presume to ask you the ways.”

Melian said nothing.

“Will you teach me?” asked Galadriel, tiring of pretense.

“No,” said Melian, and the blackbird relieved itself on Galadriel’s sleeve.

 

* * *

 

“No,” growled Galadriel into the mirror, fighting a lock of hair that had gotten tangled around a jeweled chain from her headdress. “ _No_. Selfish old witch, hoarding her knowledge – does she fear what I would do with it? Does she fear competition? Does she not think me great enough to deserve the knowing?”

She swore, words she had learned from her less-diplomatic brothers, and reached for her dagger to cut the tress free. It annoyed her to surrender and cede the lock but her impatience was winning out this evening.

Before she could lay the blade to the golden strands a whistle came from behind her. The hair moved of its own accord in her hand – gave a shimmy as if moving to a tune – and the tangled lock of hair unwound itself. The chain dropped to the ground with a stifled _shink_ and Galadriel turned, dagger in hand.

No one was there apart from a shadow that hopped like a sparrow a couple of times and then became still.

“Witch,” said Galadriel again, but very quietly, and left a saucer of birdseed on her window just in case.

 

* * *

 

The princess was gregarious where her mother was close-lipped, laughing and full of jokes where Melian was cool and detached, and Galadriel laid all her masks aside as they sat together and embroidered ossuary rugs.

“Why all the funerary attire?” she asked, sticking her needle through the heart of a lily. It was a bold question asked abruptly, but Lúthien had just told a rude story about a fisherman and a handful of prawns so Galadriel was feeling at ease.

Lúthien just laughed. “My father is obsessed with death,” she said in the same matter of fact tones she’d use to direct Galadriel to the lavatory. She tucked her hair behind her ear and bent over her embroidery hoop.

“I can’t imagine you have much of that here,” said Galadriel. “Death, I mean.” She looked through the window to the temperate glades beyond and thought of black ice and blood-soaked battlefields. They felt as far away as Aman.

“I know. That is it exactly, in fact.” Lúthien bit off her thread and searched for a shade deeper of grey. “My father prides himself on how few of his people must fear the call of Mandos. Of course there are those few unavoidable incidents – the accidental falls into the river at flood time, the tumble from a horse, the bard getting over-drunk while performing the ladder dance – but no active death walks our paths. No evil will threaten his people, no war will mar his glens, no – ”

“No kin will slay kin,” said Galadriel, who knew Thingol well enough at this point to reach his favorite conclusions at the same time as he did.

“No,” said Lúthien soberly. “But those few who die by ill luck or happenstance will be treated to the most lavish of funerals and the most ornate of burials.”

“Ah,” said Galadriel. “It is a boast. The wealth can be spent easily, because the need is so infrequent.”

“Mother is right about you, you are quick.” Lúthien threaded her needle and flicked her braid over her shoulder. “But Father would never put it so. Instead he says that we must never forget the true cost and burden of death and instead give it due honor. We must never take living for granted and we must respect death all the more for its rarity. If each death is honored so, we will not forget the value of life.”

“As have the savage Noldor,” said Galadriel, following the implication to the end of the thread. She was too interested to stop the conversation to ask about ‘Mother is right about you’, but she tucked the sentence away in her sleeve for later. “Valar forfend that Thingol’s people fall prey to such a doom.”

Lúthien did not respond but flashed her white teeth in a smile. They sewed in silence until Galadriel’s fingers began to cramp.

“If death is so rare, for whom are we making the death rags?” Galadriel flexed her fingers, rubbing the pads together to get rid of the small red indentation left by the needle.

“My parents.”

When Galadriel looked at her, shocked, Lúthien laughed like a magpie and set the bells at her ears ringing.  “The Noldor do not have the market on pride,” she said. “My father makes the trappings of his tomb so that they can gather dust forever while he lives unto the waning of the world. They are insurance and arrogance all at once.”

“What does your mother think of this?” murmured Galadriel. She could tell there was color rising in her cheeks at the mention of Melian and she wondered if it was remembered frustration with the woman. She bent over to squint at her stitches so that her hair curtained her face.

“My mother does not think death is anything to fear. Nor does she think life is something to boast of.”

“Neither are really her province, are they? Or yours, for that matter.” It was another bold thing to say and Galadriel was glad her face was hidden.

“Your brother also asked many questions of the Maiar and mortality when he was here,” said Lúthien. “I see that curiosity is a family trait.” It wasn’t an answer and Galadriel wanted to point that out, but she had just experienced a surge of homesickness for her older brother and her cheeks were still flushed besides. “There is more than one way of living as there are many ways to die. I sometimes think it would do the Eldar well to remember that.”

Lúthien set down her hoop and Galadriel saw that the section of tapestry she had been working on showed a blackbird riding a train of darkness behind a veiled woman. She uncharitably thought that the image would be more accurate with a few white stains on the flawless train.

“Your father boasts of the deathlessness of his realm,” she said, and set her lilies beside Lúthien’s blackbird. “But it is really the queen who ensures the safety of your people. It is really your mother who wields the power of Doriath and guards its boundaries. What of _her_ pride?”

“Who says it is not her of whom my father boasts? Mother has never cared much for credit anyway.”

“As she cares little for life or death,” said Galadriel, tense once more. “Do you know how she _does_ it?”

“A millennium of practiced detachment, probably.”

“The girdle! How does she weave it? How does her magic _work_?”

“I suggest you ask her,” said Lúthien, and yawned. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

 

* * *

 

Galadriel strode into Melian’s doorless chambers. Before her feet she cast the death lilies on grey silk, the yards of fabric spilling from her arms like water.

“My mother taught me to weave,” she said, holding her chin high like the princess she remembered she was. “My grandmother taught me to embroider. My father taught me to parse the future. Your daughter taught me how life and death work here and also the best Sindarin curses. I stand before you now and ask that you teach me too. I am clever, I am wise, I have strength and power already. _Teach me._  Teach me of the weavings of power and protection. I will someday have need of it, my dreams tell me so. I know you are too generous to be miserly – why else would you allow one of the ill-trusted Noldor to linger here? – so why hoard your gift? _Teach me, lady._ ” She bowed her head, but did not kneel. “Please.”

Melian watched her, two great ravens upon her shoulders. They were the same birds carved upon the tomb Lúthien had shown her, the tomb that would one day (or never) house Doriath’s king and queen. Galadriel had thought them ornaments until they clattered their beaks.

When Melian spoke, her deep voice was as gentle and unmoved as ever. “No.”

 

* * *

 

Death did not pace the trails of Doriath, so she was assured, but ever since childhood Galadriel had nursed a fear of sleep. The fear had worsened on the Ice, keeping her up through the frozen nights counting her heartbeats, certain that if she lost count they would stop. Death came to the sleeping, she thought with her child’s mind, still frantic and fierce behind her ears. Death comes to Elves who close their eyes in the dark times, she remembered, recalling the stories her grandfather used to tell of the Old Ones and the Dark Rider. Death and Sleep were both endings, and Galadriel could never bring herself to submit to them. She _could not end._

The quarters she’d been given in Doriath were very fine and included a bed with posts like branching trees, holding a midnight canopy above her. When she lay there with her feet stretching for the edge of the bed, measuring her confinement toe by toe, it felt like the lid of a sarcophagus closing upon her. _Sleep and death, twin ends_. She would submit to neither, no matter what the king and his daughter said of living and dying.  

She got up and roamed to escape both.

But there was comfort in the deathless night. When Galadriel found herself sleepless on the in the tall dark of Doriath she would send her mind out questing for another familiar insomniac. Melian’s girdle could hold back the strongest forces of Morgoth but it couldn’t stop thought, and in the long nights Galadriel would seek out her oldest brother and speak with him in the way their father had taught them centuries ago.

 _Hello little sister,_ she felt the dark night say, and she closed her eyes and turned her face to Tilion’s light.

 _Hello insufferable brother_. Her tone was affectionate, and she let her missingness infuse it. _How goes the kingdom building?_

 _Tch, let us not speak of such things, it only reminds me of how much there is to be done_. There was weariness in Finrod’s touch on her mind but no dark burden, and she could tell the weariness came of work he loved. She could also tell some of his reserve came from the nature of his imperative – those who spoke with gods sometimes found it harder to share with mere sisters and she felt envious of her brother and his great Talks. While Finrod acted on the words of Valar, she was unable even to get a satisfying audience with the witch she had on hand.

_Still yearning for a lesson from the great Melian?_

_Yes._ She let her frustration flow through to him, along with the memories of repeated rejection and the conflicting suggestion Lúthien had given her.

Finrod absorbed this and was quiet for a while. She could feel his bare arms against stone, and thought he must be leaning out over a wall somewhere. _There is power in threes,_ there came after a pause. _Have you tried that?_

_What, cursing her thricely?_

_No_. There was laughter flickering through her mind from him. _I mean try asking her a third time._

She let her disbelief and annoyance echo through to him. _You think all of this has been pedantic obedience to some arbitrary numeracy?_

She felt his shrug. _It can’t hurt to try, can it?_

 

* * *

 

Despite her brother’s advice, she waited another month before her pride allowed her to approach Melian again.

“Your majesty,” she said. “I ask you a final time and then you shall hear no more from me. I beg that you teach me. Take me as your student. Teach me the tricks you work with fabric and minds and protection. I will take even the small things, the hopping shadows and birds. Anything. But I wish to be taught. Will you, lady?”

For the first time, Galadriel saw what might be amusement in Melian’s violet gaze, before it flickered back into the depths. “Not lady,” said Melian. “Not majesty, or highness.”

“Melian?” She didn’t actually think it likely and the crinkling at the corner of Melian’s eyes bore out her assumption.

“I think not.”

“Then what shall I call you?”

“You shall call me Mistress,” said Melian, and Galadriel shivered down to the floor, her bare toes curling against the stone. “Bring me a pitcher and a basin, apprentice, and we can discuss your first lesson.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Galadriel in a low voice, jubilant and apprehensive all at once.

Finrod had been right, but Galadriel would not tell him so.

 

* * *

 

Galadriel’s patience lasted all of twenty minutes that first night.

“Teach me the hair trick,” she said as soon as she set down the basin, and then stopped her lips, knowing she had forgotten all the grace, composure, and diplomacy she might ever have possessed. “Please, Mistress,” she added. “It was you that night, wasn’t it? You untangled the knot of my hair, freed the lock from the chain – and you weren’t even in the room! Or were you?” She recalled the shadow that had hopped like a bird and remembered what the scholars said about Maiar and shape shifting.

“You ask many questions,” said Melian, and Galadriel cast her eyes to the side, thinning her lips. She was familiar with this particular chastisement.

But Melian did not tell her to bide her tongue, or that lessons came to those who listened, or to take things slow lest she wet her blade and ask questions later.

“I like a sharp mind,” said Melian. “I value a curious student. But I can only answer one thing at a time.” She paced before the great hearth in her rooms, and as she spoke, her long black hair unknit itself from its braids.

“To your first point – I do not call magic _tricks_ , no matter how small or menial the working in question. Magic is proud and magic is capricious and magic _will not be underestimated_. Call a working of power a trick and when you pull a coin from someone’s ear you may pull their mind with it. Never underestimate its power. Never pretend you are merely some conjurer of cheap tricks. Never forget you are a wielder of power and that you must respect its gifts.”

Galadriel nodded and took a deep breath, pulling each word into her lungs. _Remember everything!_ It was not unlike how Lúthien had spoken of life and death. _Treat it like it is costly beyond measure and you will not underestimate its power._

“That said,” added Melian, and there was a rumble of humor in her deep, clear voice, “I did rather play trickster on you that night.” She reached out a hand to catch a golden curl falling over Galadriel’s shoulder. “I would have hated to see you cut such a treasure in a fit of pique.”

Galadriel was too curious to feel her usual annoyance at someone touching her hair. “How did you know? Were you watching me? Following me? Were you the -”

“I was not the bird,” said Melian. She let Galadriel’s hair fall and resumed pacing. “I was riding the bird’s mind, as I do when my will would wander while my body has duties elsewhere. The bird falling tired, I rode its shadow instead and found myself drawn to where someone was thinking very forcefully of me.” She shrugged. “Shadows are susceptible to whim and inclination.”

Galadriel found herself watching Melian’s shadow, tall and regal and uncertain at the edges. It felt heavier than most shadows and she noticed it lagged at times behind the queen, hesitating when she paced on, flicking out its train when Melian’s own lay flat.

“Capricious,” said Melian again, and reached her hand into the basin of water to flick a droplet behind her. Her shadow flinched and at once was nothing but a shadow. “Now, for the ‘trick’ of the hair – it is a simple working, but one that is fundamental to almost every power I wield. You are a lady, a princess – yes?”

Galadriel nodded. She hated the word _princess_ in other’s mouths, but somehow in Melian's mouth it did not feel frivolous or weak.

“As a lady you have been taught how to weave and embroider. You know warp and woof, you know the pricking of needles, you know the thrum of silk.” Melian spread her hands wide. “So. Pick up your tools.”

Galadriel glanced around the great stone chambers. “I – for weaving? I brought none with me. Where should I find them?”

Melian carded her fingers through the air like she was passing a shuttle over a loom. Threads of darkness gathered in her hands, thick as silk. The stones beneath Galadriel’s feet grew warm. “Your tools? They are all around you, girl.”

 

* * *

                                                                                                

From her mother and grandmother Galadriel had learned the weaving of fabric and thread, of truth and charm. From Melian she learned the weaving of reality.

Of time.

Of dreams.

“Dreams are tricky,” said Melian one night, as Galadriel panted and struggled on the stone before her. “Trickier to warp than reality, since they resist it already. More sly than time, too, for they do not obey it – one can live an age in a dream and wake five minutes later with only a dry mouth and the fading memory of salmon and something green. Dreams hurt more than time or reality too, for they give and take with more cruelty and less justice.They - " Melian broke off as Galadriel's fingernails cracked on the hearth. "You are letting it ride you, girl _,_ resist!”

Galadriel let out a sob of frustration. “I am resisting!” She felt she did nothing _but_ resist. Fighting to bend things to her will, fighting to keep them from bending her in return - she’d been doing it since Aman or even earlier.

“Then fight a different way,” said Melian, and turned from her.

Without Melian’s eyes on her, Galadriel stopped trying to look strong or powerful or wise. She was not a sorceress, not a princess of a great house, she was just a woman – sweating and scared and crouched on the floor like a child playing at ponies. She dropped her head and yielded to the dream, letting it ride her until she was shaken and wrung dry – and then, when it had nothing left to consume and hung before her, fat and indolent, she grabbed it around the throat and swallowed it.

“That’s new,” commented Melian, and Galadriel belched. “But you still let it own you.”

“I had the last word, didn’t I?” Galadriel got to her feet and wiped her mouth. Her white dress was soaked through and she knew it must be shamefully transparent. She didn’t care; surely Maiar knew nipples existed. She held a clammy hand before her and concentrated. The dream swelled from her heart line, blossoming in her palm. It grew to a finger’s length, then she twitched her thumb and it shrank again, falling back into the grooves of her hand. “Mine now,” said Galadriel with satisfaction, and put the dream in her pocket.

She threw it at Daeron the next night because he wouldn’t stop warbling about nightingales, and because she knew it would make Lúthien laugh.

 _Capricious_ , came Melian’s voice in her ear, but when Galadriel looked up at the high table Melian was hiding a smile in her wine glass.

 

* * *

 

With dreams caught up her sleeve and battles sweat out on the stones of Melian’s room, Galadriel found herself sleeping through the night - once, twice in a row.

 _You might die!_ shrilled her heartbeat. _Something might take you!_  

 _Not if I take it first,_ thought Galadriel. She rolled over and slept, palm pulsing.

 

* * *

 

Melian taught Galadriel to master the weavings of shadow and dream. Melian taught Galadriel how to put a knot in time and a divot in reality. Melian taught Galadriel to forge armor of thought and blankets of nothing.

Melian failed utterly at teaching Galadriel control and it infuriated them both.

“Try harder!” they snarled at each other at the same time, the night when Galadriel had broken every window in the east wing of the palace and flooded the ornamental garden.

“I did not ask for such an apprentice,” snapped Melian, drawing herself up and further up, her shoulders into ravens. “I did not ask for an apprentice at all.”

“An apprentice asked for you,” said Galadriel, and spat on the ruins of the birdbath. “Three times to the charm, you old witch.”

Melian’s eyes flashed and Galadriel felt a certain amount of satisfaction. It was the most emotion she had ever seen Melian show – perhaps that was another trick, she thought gleefully. Weaving annoyance into raw emotion.

“Stop calling them _tricks_!” Melian flung out an arm and her cloak fell back, revealing her bare shoulders. The ravens became a fall of black feathers around her, orbiting slowly, and Galadriel sulkily admired the effect. It was a good one. “You asked three times to be my apprentice,” said Melian, advancing on her. Her feet splashed against the soggy moss of the ruined garden. “There is a power in threes. There is also a power in firsts.”

“What?” Galadriel felt goose bumps erupt over her skin and curled her toes into the wet grass.

“The first thing you demanded of me,” said Melian softly. “You asked about the _hair trick_ . You asked why I watched you that night. And I told you – I whistled to protect something I inexplicably treasured.” She stretched out a long finger that seemed to grow longer in the darkness and caught a damp curl of Galadriel’s hair. “There is a _power_ in firsts,” said Melian again, and then she smiled.

Galadriel opened her mouth to demand that Melian stop being cryptic but broke off with a shudder. There was something crawling on her, something creeping over her skin. She made to brush it away, a disquiet like a spider on her shoulder, but her hands wouldn’t move. She let out a small sound and wrenched at her wrists, restrained now by something warm and fibrous, and then gave a louder cry at the pain at her scalp. By the time she realized fully what was happening, her hands were bound up behind her back in the heavy golden tresses of her own hair. She sank to her knees, trying to relieve the pressure on her scalp and the tresses flowed down to her ankles, securing them to her wrists. Back arched, throat exposed, Galadriel stared at the night sky and fought panic and rage.

“This is ridiculous,” she managed to say, before a long lock of gold tried to gag her.

“Control,” said Melian gently, stepping close. She ran a finger down Galadriel’s throat and then studied the knots at her wrists and ankles. “I suggest you learn it if you are to free yourself.”

“Don’t be – That’s so – That’s stupid,” said Galadriel, spitting hair and wiggling. “You know I can do magics far greater than this, you know this is just a parlor tri – ”

“Firsts,” said Melian again. “You asked it first, and yet you never mastered it. You like the deep magics, the strong magics you can fight and conquer, the bitter magic you can swallow and not retch, the powers you can wrap into your beating palm. But what of magic as fine as a single hair? What of magic gentle enough to caress?” She stroked Galadriel’s cheek and Galadriel tried not to choke on her swallowed gasp. “You think something frail cannot possibly serve as defense against ruin and that is where you are wrong. Delicate things braided strong can restrain might and hold back evil. I was wrong to try and teach you control,” Melian added ruminatively. “I should have started first with submission.”

Submission! Galadriel could have screamed. She had not shed blood nor invoked Doom nor faced her death on the Grinding Ice for _submission_. She had not left the green and undying lands - her parents, safety, security - for submission. She had not relinquished her beloved brothers and cousins and friends to ambitions she envied only to submit, _no_ , she could not, would not –

“Submission is the twin to control,” said Melian. “Master one and you know the other.”

 _Never!_ roared Galadriel’s pride. _Never!_ cried her Noldorin blood and her bleeding sword and her Vanyarin politique and her Telerin grief. ( _W_ _hat if in submitting you lose yourself?_ wailed her fear. _What if your heart stops beating?_ )

But,

“Yes, Mistress,” said Galadriel, who would be a witch.

And,

“I yield, Mistress,” said Galadriel, who would know power even if power was its own cost.

And,

“I understand, Mistress,” said Galadriel, kneeling before her own pride.

Galadriel, who would be queen. Galadriel, who would be a witch. Galadriel, who would learn there were things far greater to fear than to be taken from eternal life.

Her bonds unknotted as she relaxed into them; her eyes closed and her fingers loosened.

“Good girl,” whispered Melian. “That’s my girl.”

Melian knelt, her hands warm against Galadriel’s thighs. Galadriel dropped her shaking arms and their palms met, strong and full of life, thick with dreams.

"Mistress," said Galadriel.

"Galadriel," said Melian.

She kissed her once on each damp cheek. They were sweet kisses, soft kisses, not kisses between queens or witches, but the sort given by one woman to another. A kiss for each cheek - and one on the lips.

Threes, it was said, were important.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. About time I wrote my first Silm femslash OTP, eh, I say, and then proceed to not even let them kiss until after 4600 words.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Sorceress' Apprentice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10518099) by [Chestnut_filly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chestnut_filly/pseuds/Chestnut_filly)
  * [the sound of water falling over stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751337) by [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed)




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